


Revel

by DistantStorm



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Ikora's Love Life, Public Displays of Affection, Relationship Issues, The Revelry, The Vanguard and Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 15:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18527470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: For a tumblr prompt: "you look amazing tonight."This story has very little to do with that prompt, and far more to do with Zavala's relationship problems, Ikora's love life, and the Vanguard making a commitment to their own happiness if they're going to continue to serve the City and the Guardians as they always have.





	Revel

Ikora prides herself on attention to detail. She can tell someone how many people are in a room, which ones are involved, who hates each other, their ticks and their tells. It’s simple to her, really.

Which is why it’s glaringly obvious when someone close to her is acting strangely, even when they might not see it themselves.

“We made a promise,” Ikora finally says, as lightly as she remembers how, when Zavala loses his train of thought for the fourth time in ten minutes. “Did you not take it seriously?”

That shocks the man beside her back to attention. “Of course I did!” He replies defensively.

They’re leaning against the railing overlooking the main drag of the Tower, side by side. It’s part of their agreement to spend more time together - both in public and in private. Repairing the damage to their relationship isn’t an easy fix. It takes time, plenty of further arguments, and a lot of dedication (both to themselves and each other).

Beneath them, there are flower petals dancing in the air, lanterns lit in a whimsical display. The Revelry celebration is in full swing. It’s beautiful, it really is. Ikora finds herself enjoying it far more than she had the last Dawning.

“We agreed,” Ikora murmurs, leaning against his arm in a friendly display, “That the only way we would be able to continue in our positions would be if we committed to do things for our own happiness, as well.”

The Commander looks down at her, brow furrowing. “I don’t understand.”

“You should go talk to her. Hawthorne.” Zavala flinches, and Ikora’s lips thin. She does not take her eyes off the hooded woman in the crowd, the one that’s unknowingly taken Zavala’s attention from the moment she came up from the Hangar. “I see how you look at her.”

“Ikora-”

“I don’t want to hear it. We agreed.”

He sighs. “I doubt she’ll speak to me. I was not very… cordial, the last time we spoke.” Well, he was cordial, he supposed, but there’s no cordial way to put an end to a budding relationship when the other party is railing against you.

“Cordial or otherwise, you’re making this far more difficult than it needs to be. Go down there,” She gestures to the main strip of the Tower, adorned in pastels and gold-tones, “And just say hello.”

“And what about you?”

Ikora does not shrug, but she insists, “Don’t worry about me.”

Zavala turns on her. “That isn’t how this works.”

“I don’t have a love interest.”

“Shun-”

“Is very happy with his new partner. He’s planning to propose to her, last I heard. I’m happy for them.”

The Commander scrutinizes her carefully, checking for any sign of emotional distress on her person, before murmuring, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. We had our differences and things have been over between us for a long time. I need to focus on making myself happy, before I can hope find happiness to share with someone else.” She smiles gently, golden eyes smarting. “I’ll be alright. Go.”

“There is no conceivable way she’ll entertain a discussion that isn’t strictly business with me.” He curls his lower lip. “I am sure she has long since given up on me. It’s been months.”

Ikora rolls her eyes. Never did she think she’d see the day that she gave him a pep talk. “If I know one thing about Suraya Hawthorne, it’s that she doesn’t give up. Not on anything, and certainly not on anyone.”

“But-”

She levels him with her trademark stare. “Zavala. We don’t get moments like these often. Go get her.”

He sighs quite a bit when he’s frustrated. “What do I say? I’m sorry I broke up with you? It sounds… rather cringe-worthy.”

“Well,” Ikora deadpans, “It might not hurt. Try telling her she looks good. That’s what Cayde always used to do.” 

He relents to the severity of her gaze, shoulder curling downward just a touch. She’s trying for him, and he knows it. He has to make an effort, even if he knows there’s little point. “I will make an attempt. Do not be surprised when I join you after she shoots me down.”

Two dark hands brace his shoulders. Ikora’s voice is encouraging. “Just try, Zavala. I’m sure she won’t.”

-/

“Hawthorne.”

She turns, her normally wide eyes narrowing on him as he weaves through a pair of surprised - though not enough to stop gyrating - Hunters to get to her.

“Whatcha need, Commander?” Maybe he should have called her Suraya, he thinks to himself. He should have called her Suraya. It would have set the tone, told her that he didn’t intend to be so formal.

“I-” He frowns. He can’t just start the conversation over. His eyes dart to the left and up, slightly. Ikora is watching him intently. If he doesn’t try, she’ll send him tight back down and tell him he’s not taking their agreement seriously.

She taps her foot impatiently, not that it’s heard over the throng of partying Guardians. “Okay, if you don’t need anything, I’m gonna go.”

“You look-”

Her face changes from something familiar - he can handle her usual glower, that protective emotional armor she dons - to something darker. She reigns it in quickly enough, but he cannot unsee the hurt that crosses her face, just as stark and raw as the day he’d told her he would not pursue her, that their interaction was a dalliance he could not afford with things going to hell the way they had.

“I swear to the Traveler if you’re about to tell me I look beautiful, Zavala, I’m going to punch you.” Idiot, he thinks. She always hated canned lines.

He holds out both hands, but she’s already scrutinizing him. She sees through him every time, she always has. “I would have used a different adjective,” He admits, subdued. “Amazing, perhaps.”

She lifts her arms slightly, then drops them back to her sides, her poncho making a very small, rippling flap. “This is what I wear every day,” She grouses, picking at a pull on her sleeve.

“Even so,” He says earnestly.

That dark, defensive look stays in her eyes, but she bites her lip, warring with herself. He deserves this, he thinks, chest constricting at the sight of her nervous reaction. He’ll weather it if he must. “Flattering me isn’t going to get you anywhere, Zavala.”

His lips thin, and he frowns. “I know it won’t-”

She interrupts him, scoffing, “So why bother?”

“I don’t-” He sighs, deflating. He might as well give her the truth. “I wasn’t going to come down here.”

Her arms cross over her chest at the realization that he’s been put up to this. The last bit of warmth leaves her steady gaze. “Then go.”

“That isn’t-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” He hears it in her voice. That little, barely a few pitches higher tone, the one that says she’s not going to burst into tears, but he’s definitely pushing her close. She turns on her heels, calling over her shoulder in that same upset tone, “Enjoy the Revelry, Commander.”

“Suraya, wait!”

He can see the tell-tale shake of her head through her hood as she slips easily between the Guardians all around. Casting a glance up at Ikora, he watches the Warlock make a shooing gesture.

Go after her, it feels like Ikora is saying to him with that wide, intense stare.

And say what? He frowns, though he follows after the other woman, anyway. None of it says enough. There are no words that could adequately express his regret, his desires, his intentions. None, at least, that will be quick enough to reasonably convey.

So single-minded is his focus that he does not realize where she’s going until he sees her come to a stop beside Ikora, where he’d been standing maybe ten, fifteen minutes before.

The crowd is loud, but he can hear the Clan Steward loud and clear. “Why did you put him up to this? It’s not - I don’t appreciate other people getting involved in my personal affairs.”

To her credit, Ikora does not look over Suraya’s shoulder to make eye contact, but Zavala knows she acutely knows he’s there. Just like he now knows that two second glance he’d given Ikora earlier was enough to tip Hawthorne off. It’s the price of dealing with intelligent, powerful women.

The Warlock tips her head, her gaze serious. “If you must know, I decided that he would be better suited pursuing you, rather than pining after you all night.”

“Stay out of it. He doesn’t - I’m not like you,” Hawthorne finally admits. “I don’t have centuries. I can’t do this every time someone we care about dies.”

Her golden eyes narrow, darkening with something less kind. “Hawthorne, I’m not having this discussion with you. Talk to Zavala, or don’t. This isn’t my place.”

The mortal woman nods, but presses, “Don’t put him up to this again.”

“You have my word.”

Suraya bumps her fist on the railing. It’s clear the conversation is over. “Thank you.”

She turns, and Zavala is standing there, doing his best not to look like he’s been eavesdropping. It’s not effective in the slightest. A quick glance behind her tells Suraya that Ikora has turned away, under the guise of giving them privacy. Her vision blurs ever so slightly. It’s all too much.

“Not now, okay?”

“Just hear me out. Please.”

“No.”

He reaches out and braces both her shoulders. “Suraya, what do I have to do?”

She sniffs, crossing her arms, and a tiny trail from a singular tear dissects one of the circle tattoos beneath her left eye. She holds herself tight, as if that’s all that’s keeping her together.

“I’m not doing this with you,” She finally says, though it lacks that tough edge she’s known for. “You heard what I said to Ikora.”

“I did.”

She dips her head, though it shakes left to right and back as well. “How do you not get this? This - we have to mean enough for you to not throw it away when things are difficult. And they will be. I’m going to age. I’m going to die. There’s no way around it.” Her dark eyes lock onto him. “This is a whole different kind of commitment, Zavala. I don’t fault you for not wanting it. I really don’t. I won’t have you step back into this lightly.”

“I would not.” He exhales each metered breath carefully. How does he show her? “I want this, Suraya. I want you.”

She squeezes her arms hard, hugging herself tight. “I know,” She whispers. “But-”

“This is not some frivolous undertaking, not something I have given no thought. You deserve-” He frowns, holding her gaze as she looks at him. Her tawny eyes unfurl with that hopeful desperation: pleading him to prove her wrong just one time more.

Around them, a few onlookers - nosy Guardians, the lot of them - chatter, looking casually disinterested in what’s going on. There are people all around them, some dancing, shouting, singing, carrying on in some manner of celebration. He takes a deep breath.

Like Ikora said, they have to commit to their own happiness, too.

Zavala reaches for her face, fingers carefully sliding beneath the protective cover of her hood to brush against her skin, and in the same breath takes the step that separates them and presses his lips to hers.

Eyes sliding shut, she whimpers into it: into the tenderness of the thing, her arms falling away from around her and wrapping around his forearms, pulling him closer. The wild cat-calls and incredulous shouting-cheering-yelling that erupts around them is drown out by the frantic staccato of their heartbeats. He pulls back to look at her, to confirm he hasn’t just made a terrible mistake, but, not to be outdone, she latches one hand firmly over his breastplate and pulls him right back as if she couldn’t get enough.

Someone nearby turns up the music and the singing and dancing follows. The revelling carries on, the spectacle beside her not drawing interest for long. Ikora tips her head to the side, regardless. She hadn’t expected him to go for it right here, in the middle of the Tower. And certainly not half as arduously. It’s not a bad look for him, she can’t help but think.

She shakes her head as two small hands creep around her comrade’s back, the Clan Steward clearly pushing herself into him for a hug. Overkill or not - this wasn’t the sort of thing you could take back, considering the number of witnesses - it clearly worked.

A nudge at her side jolts her. “Looks like you’ve lost your company for the evening,” A familiar voice calls.

“So it seems,” She says, turning the other way to see the other trademark Titan of the Tower standing tall beside the rail. “What’re you doing caught up in this madness?”

“I hear there’s a lovely tonic that Eva’s been doling out. Something about good moods - been creating a great deal of mischief in the Crucible. Care to help me test it out?”

She looks over her shoulder. Zavala’s turned toward her, his luminous blue eyes brighter than she can recall in ages. He dips his head in a nearly imperceptible nod.

“Against you?” Shaxx grins, beneath his helmet. Ikora can practically feel the man’s glee though she cannot see it sparking in his eyes. She smirks, her eyebrows rising and falling, indicative of a challenge accepted. “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

Shaxx puts a large palm on her shoulder, wrapping his arm up and around her back, steering her away from the malady of colors, lights, and mayhem all around. It’s warm and familiar, the scent of heavy ammo, of gun oil and smoke.

Ikora isn’t sure what her picture of happiness looks like - it’s been too long, she’s trying to get to know herself - but they have an agreement, and she’s damn sure willing to find out.


End file.
